


Good Luck With That

by superheroresin



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Disassociation, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, M/M, Memory Loss, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 12:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11013135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superheroresin/pseuds/superheroresin
Summary: Sure it’s not my fault, Steve. I know I was brainwashed.Sure I’ll keep fighting, Steve. You’re still too dumb to run away from a fight.Sure I’ll join the Avengers, Steve. Bad guys don’t take a day off.…Sure, Steve. I’ll dog sit Hawkeye’s dog with you.





	Good Luck With That

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [[art] Good Luck With That](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11025825) by [whatthefoucault](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault). 



> Art by @whatthefoucault for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang!  
> ***  
> This fic was beta read by the amazing Queenofthewips!

Art by:  **[@whatthefoucault](https://tmblr.co/ml8s4cRfTjOeQFtP_ttznHQ) ([Ao3](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Farchiveofourown.org%2Fusers%2Fwhatthefoucault%2Fpseuds%2Fwhatthefoucault&t=YTM3NTJlZDkyMDAzYzlmN2NkODJhYzgxZTFkMTMwODdkNmIxN2UxNSx4WXVKRllUUg%3D%3D&b=t%3AezyjtN2WCJA2MY21E4U8FA&p=https%3A%2F%2Fresinonao3.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F160859603738%2Fgood-luck-with-that-a-collaboration-for&m=1))**

* * *

 “Should we be worried?”

“Clint. It’s Captain America.”

Clint rubs the back of his head, and his train of thought is momentarily derailed when his fingers irritate a wound he didn’t realize was there and has to check them for blood. There’s a bit of dried stuff (gross) and a couple loose hairs (even grosser) that don’t even appear to be his (...?!)

“Okay,” Clint says, and wipes his hand on his jeans. “Is it weird that Bucky didn’t come with him? He hasn’t really been out in the world much since we got him back. He could’ve gotten lost or something. Maybe I should ask. I should ask, right?” He pokes the bandage on his nose (just in case) and winces when he is painfully reminded that yup, it’s still broken.

“This isn’t ‘The World’,” Kate reasons. “It’s Bed Stuy.” She drops her purple rimmed aviators back down on her nose, ready to go. “And no, you shouldn’t ask.” She’s been ready to go for the past twenty minutes, weekend bag slung over one shoulder, quiver over the the other, while Clint finished hunting down an extra pair of socks, his favorite hat, the television remote, and pretty much anything else he could think of to waste time.

“But—”

“Clint. It’s _Captain America._ Did you expect all his problems would go away the moment he set eyes on your dog?”

“Kinda. No. Come on, Kate. Who looks that sad when they see a dog?”

It’s true. Ever since he arrived with his huge shoulders and surprisingly small duffel bag, Steve Rogers has been sitting on the sofa without moving. He pets the very top of Lucky’s head with the world’s saddest smile, like he’s looking at a one-eyed Sokovian orphan offering single matchsticks for sale.

Of course Lucky loves the attention, so he continues to politely sit and tilt his head for better access. Clint catches him rub the side of his face with one paw to ask for more, and wonders if someone taught the dog how to salute or if that just comes naturally in Captain America’s presence.

He’s not sure what he expected when Steve and his boyfriend agreed to watch Lucky while Clint and Kate take advantage of Tony’s empty Malibu house for some much needed R&R. Steve told him that he still hasn’t found a place in New York so he appreciated the chance to have someplace ‘homey’ to stay. Almost as if Clint’s the one doing Steve a favor.

Still, when he had shown up all polite and alone, it suddenly felt like Captain America looked out of place in Clint’s shithole apartment. Well. It’s not like Steve could stay in ~~Stark~~ Avengers Tower after everything happened between Tony and the off-brand super soldier.

Speaking of which, just where _is_ the ex-brainwashed ex-soviet ex-Hydra ex-assassin? Clint would feel a hundred times better if he just showed up already and maybe then Captain America wouldn’t look like he needs a super soldier sized Zoloft either.

“I’m just gonna ask,” Clint mumbles low enough so that Kate doesn’t actually hear him. She’s distracted anyway, staring hard into the reflective lenses of her aviators as she pokes at the bandage on her chin. “Hey, Cap. Where’s your—” Best friend? Attempted murderer? War buddy? Should he just say boyfriend, and get it over with? It’s not like Cap’s put a label on it but all the Avengers on Cap’s side of the tarmac _knew._ _Futz,_ he’s taking too long to finish. “...Bucky?”

Nailed it.

“Oh. Right.” Steve’s tone is just a tad too casual, like he’s preparing to make excuses. “He’s on his way. He um. He had a few errands to run first. He’ll get here soon.” Suddenly, he looks a bit unsure, like someone just kicked Captain America’s confidence in the nuts—and that ‘someone’ is clearly Clint so _that’s_ a great feeling. “It won’t be a problem, will it?”

“Of course not, Steve,” Kate says with remarkable patience, then directs a sharp look at Clint that says he should have known better than to kick Captain America’s confidence in the nuts. Apparently, she finished examining the scrape along her jaw and put her aviators back on, only this time she also pulled her keys out of her purse. “His vet info is on the fridge, leash is in the drawer under the cutting board, and he can have a treat after dinner but _do not_ let him eat garbage…” She trails off when Steve’s eyebrows raise about a centimeter too high as he looks at Clint. “And I mean _Lucky.”_

“He knows that!” Clint blurts out, then immediately turns to Steve. “You _knew_ that! Okay, fine. I get it. We’re leaving. Thank you so much for doing this.”

Clint marches to his front door, flings it open, and makes a face when he comes face to face with some homeless guy, standing there in his way. “Oh, speak of the devil.” Kate doesn’t sound so surprised, so Clint squints over the guy one more time only to realize it one beat too late that he had been looking at the Winter Soldier himself.

And boy does he not look good. Like Clint _waking-up-in-a-dumpster_ not good.

Bucky smiles shyly, like he had when they first met in Germany, only this time he somehow looks even scruffier. The metal forearm poking out from the rolled up sleeve of his flannel shirt looks like it hasn’t seen a can of oil in seventy-five years.

“Yo,” Clint says.

“Bucky!” Steve comes bounding up, with Lucky following right on his heels, and the two of them have almost the exact same expression on their golden faces: Steve excited that his boyfriend actually showed up, Lucky excited that maybe this one will give him ear scratches too.

Clint moves aside to let Bucky in, and takes casual note of the man’s ragged backpack. He’s seen it before, a relic he insists on taking with him everywhere, and like him it’s seen better days. Honestly? It kind of balances the Captain’s spit ‘n polish a little bit, and Clint doesn’t feel so bad leaving them to babysit his dumpy apartment.

Instead of acknowledging Captain America right away, Bucky immediately goes to his knees and gives Lucky full on, cheek smushing ear scratches. Steve looks only a little disappointed and takes a half step away from the two of them, unsure where he fits in. The dog has clearly determined who his new favorite is.

“They’ll be fine,” Kate says with a tiny elbow nudge into his side. She offers one of her rare, soft looks, but Clint doesn’t need too much convincing to finally leave them to it.

Turns out he doesn’t feel so bad leaving his dog to babysit his dumpy superhero friends, either.

* * *

Steve watches Bucky carefully, the way he didn’t quite say hi to either Hawkeyes or himself, the terrible state of his beard, and the way he keeps the strap of his backpack looped around his elbow, even though it hangs halfway on the floor when he goes to pet the dog.

“Thanks for coming,” Steve says, his voice going up in the sort of way that’s meant to start a conversation.

“Sure thing,” Bucky says, in the sort of way that’s meant to end one.

Steve had jumped at the chance to house sit for Clint — the perfect opportunity to get some real time alone with him since they came back from Wakanda — because a lot of their conversations tend to go this way. Bucky isn’t standoffish, not exactly. He’s not anti-social or hyper vigilant or paranoid. He doesn’t act depressed or scared or even mildly concerned about his traumatic past or his near-insurmountable road to recovery.

Instead Bucky smiles when everyone else smiles, fights when everyone else fights, and at night he reminds Steve of everything he had been missing from life the few long years that Steve had been alive without him. The other Avengers think he’s actually pretty easy going, if a bit rough around the edges.

Amenable. _Happy,_ even.

If that was the case, Steve thinks, then he’s sure he would actually recognize the man he wakes up in bed with every morning. Instead, he has this itch on the back of his neck whenever he sees Bucky-atypical behavior and he can’t seem to let it go. Steve couldn’t believe it when Sam had told him to leave Bucky be, that he’ll come to Steve when he’s ready, if he ever needs to. Apparently, Bucky is just taking his time processing, finding a quiet way to cope in his own way.

It doesn’t bother Steve that Bucky doesn’t seem depressed or anxious or traumatized. What bothers Steve is that he knows Bucky had _never_ been that friendly before the war. Had never been that easy going or polite. He had been sarcastic, cocky with his teachers, impatient with his priest, and occasionally downright fresh with the ladies.

Bucky Barnes had actually been kind of a jerk to a _lot_ of people that weren’t Steven Grant Rogers. Now he’s all polite smiles and shy greetings, and it drives Steve up the wall. Their relationship has really only got started again, still new enough where Steve doesn’t know where all the boundaries are, and it already feels like it’s falling apart.

Steve hopes the little house-sitting project will give them time to get to know one another again, as the new people they both woke up to in the twenty-first century.

“Want to get Chinese food for dinner?” Steve asks. Food is always a good place to start. Bucky even has an opinion on what he wants to eat sometimes.

“Whatever you want,” Bucky replies, neutral smile and all and Steve scratches the itch on the back of his neck.

“Alright,” he says, caving immediately. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he is so well adjusted. Really, Steve should just be grateful that Bucky even showed up. Apparently, he never feels the need to explain where he had been, but Steve’s gotten used to the silence after all the times he’s vanished for days on end from the Avengers facility up state. “I’ll see who delivers over here.”

It’s okay. Steve has five whole days to crack that nut.

Bucky stands up and stretches, arching his back while he lazily saunters past the living room. “Clint is a bit of a mess,” he observes, nudging the corner of a pizza box peeking out from under the couch with the toe of his ratty boot. Lucky follows closely behind him, just in case some of those ear scratches were to come back his way. “Neighborhood is a bit of a mess too.”

“Look who's talking,” Steve retorts, punching in the address for Clint’s Bed Stuy apartment and hoping for the best.

“Oh,” Bucky says, a little bit quiet, thoughtful. Then he adds, as if the two things were related, “Did you see the Russians out front?”

Steve looks up immediately. “Russians? No. Why? Did you know them?” Then immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—” Bucky looks back at him, mouth parted in confusion and Steve’s shoulders sag. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugs, takes a seat on Clint’s squashy couch. “S’okay.”

The itch comes back, and Steve rolls his neck to avoid scratching it. Bucky should be offended — rightly so from Steve’s stupid remark — and he should let Steve know it with some snappy comeback. _Of course,_ he’d say with a sarcastic snort. _All Russian criminals know each other, we trade piroshki recipes in our Facebook group._ That is the Bucky he knows, and the one he can almost hear just underneath that quiet response. Steve wants to ask him if it’s really okay, but clears his throat instead. “So, what about these Russians?”

“Ten to twelve, all male, rotating in and out of number two downstairs. Some kind of gang, but not with the Bratva. They aren’t a threat,” Bucky says, staring straight ahead. Then he adds, “To us.”

“Thanks for the report,” Steve mumbles over Bucky’s dry tone, then frowns down at the GrubHub app. The closest Chinese place doesn’t deliver, and the next five nearby don’t deliver specifically to this neighborhood. Amazing to think that something so trivial like this could feel like such an inconvenience; that food from China can’t just be hand delivered to his apartment at a cost that barely registers against his frankly ridiculous bank account. Back home such a luxury wouldn't even be possible.

The _Great Depression,_ they call it. As if America is just _bummed out_ and not on the verge of collapse; their lives just one step away from utter ruin.

Steve’s heart clenches and his hand spasms around the hard line of his phone, the sudden reality of this new, modern life sneaking in around the edges of his own time as he starts to realize he’s no longer there.

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice snaps him back, and he looks down to find Lucky poking his nose into his free hand as it hangs loosely at his side.

“I’m fine.” Really, he is. Steve clears his throat, pets Lucky along the top of his muzzle. “Okay, we have two choices. Pick something else for dinner, or go for a walk.”

Lucky’s bark is like a shout of approval for option number two.

* * *

Steve fishes the leash out of drawer beneath the cutting board, right where Kate had said it’d be, and soon they are trundling down the narrow, exposed staircase to the lobby. Lucky instinctively swings left out of the front door, but Steve pulls him right with a gentle tug. “Food’s this way, buddy.”

Bucky shivers in the cold when a fresh flurry of snow crosses their path and tucks his arm into Steve’s. These small moments of public intimacy make Steve feel like a jerk about how much he questions Bucky’s recovery. How can he blame the guy for enjoying himself? The future doesn’t have to be as dark as Steve always perceives it.

“Have you thought about what you want?” Bucky asks, and Steve’s heart leaps for a moment of existential possibilities. “For dinner,” Bucky adds, picking up on Steve’s overthinking.

“Definitely broccoli beef. And I’d kill for some sweet and sour chicken.” Steve rattles off a few more entrees, Bucky heartily nodding to each without any suggestions of his own. At least he reminds Steve about the spicy mustard.

Bucky offers to stay outside with Lucky when Steve goes in to order. While Steve tries to remember the mustard at the end, he catches sight of one of Clint’s tenants passing by the restaurant's front window. The man stops to say something to Bucky and Steve’s hackles stand on end when Bucky’s posture changes completely. Is this one of his Russians? Bucky suddenly looks so uncomfortable, stealing a cautious look out from under the fringe of his long hair like he hopes no one else will notice.

“Is that all?” The woman at the front desk asks again, and Steve snaps back around.

“Right, yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

“That’ll be seventy ninety-eight. Wait about twenty minutes,” she adds, after Steve passes her his credit card. He doesn’t pay much attention though, because he’s about to fly through the window in case the stranger tries something. Instead, the man gives a stiff nod and moves on, like his business is finished.

What the hell was that about?

“Sign here please,” the lady at the counter says, tapping Steve’s hand with the little receipt tray.

“Oh sure, sure. Sorry about that.” Steve adds an extra tip for being rude, and quickly rejoins Bucky on the street.

“What was that about?” Steve tries to ask casually, but he’s flustered and huffy and it winds up coming out like an accusation.

Bucky regards him for a moment before answering. “What was what about?” He’s frowning slightly, which means he knows exactly what Steve is asking about and is just refusing to answer without making Steve work for it. No longer so amenable all of a sudden.

Should Steve really push? This is the first time he’s seen so much as a flicker of resistance from Bucky and suddenly he thinks he should let him have this. See how far it goes. Did the Russian follow them? Did he threaten him? Did he know him after all, from the Motherland?

Clearly whatever it is, Bucky doesn’t think it’s any of Steve’s business.

“Nevermind,” Steve says, hoping the heat in his cheeks is covered by the chill in the air. “Food will take about twenty minutes. Want to go around the block?”

Bucky’s face doesn’t exactly brighten, but returning to that neutral smile after his almost-frown is practically lighting up like Christmas in comparison. “Sure,” he says, and Lucky agrees by immediately tugging forward on his leash.

They don’t talk about anything on their walk. They aren’t silent, but their conversation doesn’t go anywhere either, and by the time they get back to Hawkeye’s apartment with their bags of takeout Steve can’t even remember what the topic had been. The weather? The last mission? Both equally as boring after Bucky’s half-engagement no matter what the subject.

When Steve says, “It’s nice to see so many people out, even though it’s winter.” Bucky says, “They probably just have jobs they need to go to.”

When Steve says, “Tony told me that he’s done pulling apart that robot we fought in Virginia. He thinks it’s just a knock off of Doc Ock’s tech but I can’t help but feel like I was fighting someone a bit more dangerous than that. He could be selling his tech on the black market.”

“Oh,” is all Bucky manages to contribute to that discussion.

When Steve asks, “Why do you wear a glove on your left hand? Does it get cold?” Bucky shrugs and says “The metal gets cold so it’s uncomfortable for anyone it comes in contact with.” He doesn’t even use that as an opener to talk about touching Steve.

It’s weird to think that Bucky had been so much more flirtatious with him before the war, when they hadn’t actually been lovers, than they are now, when they wind up fucking each other senseless almost every night. Maybe Bucky doesn’t really feel the need now that he’s got what he’s wanted all along? Either way, Steve misses it.

Steve tries not to react when they walk past the same neighbor who wound up outside of the Chinese restaurant, going through the mailbox for number two. What the hell could this guy be getting so much mail for? When Steve had arrived earlier that day he had been lurking around downstairs as well. Lucky sniffs at him, but otherwise is happy enough to trundle up the stairs and Bucky doesn’t give the man a second glance, despite the fact that he looks up from his mail and stares at them both when they head up the stairs.

Maybe it had just been a coincidence that he wound up outside of Happy Lotus Chinese food?

Ha. Like they would _ever_ be that lucky.

* * *

One of the best things about the future (the _present,_ Steve has to remind himself, yet again) is that no matter what time of day it is, no matter where you are, there will be a baseball game on. Unless you’re a mess like Clint freaking Barton, and nothing happens when you click the power button on the TV remote.

“Huh,” Bucky says, past a mouthful of chow mien noodles.

“Ugh,” Steve groans, stabbing his chopsticks back into his broccoli beef container.

“We don’t have to watch anything,” Bucky suggests, but Steve is on a mission. All it took was one, tiny joke from Stark about him and modern technology and Steve never passes up an opportunity to make shit work. He dives behind the tv, shoving the entire stand out of the way with one shoulder, then sneezes when a cloud of dust and dog hair puffs up from the tangle of cables.

Steve doesn’t recognize anything he sees. There isn’t a single HDMI cable, no streaming devices, not even an old RCA or component video cable. Just some giant plug with a single pin in the middle and a cracked square box, trailing a flat cord to an antenna that sits on the top of the TV. “Buck,” Steve sighs. “I think Clint’s stuff is as old as we are.”

Steve sits back in defeat and glances over to Bucky, who is staring at him in shock. “Did we have TVs?”

“What? No,” Steve laughs. “They weren’t around until the forties, man, you know that.”

“O-oh. Right. Just kidding.” Bucky’s slight stutter goes straight to Steve’s heart. Bucky hadn’t been kidding. He had been confused, suddenly unsure of what his own ragged memories tell him. It had been like this since his recovery in Wakanda; remembering just enough to share an inside joke or two about their own time (which Sam just _loved_ ), but still struggling to parse which memories happened in what time. Like he has puzzle pieces to several different pictures, and the edges fit together well enough that sometimes he doesn’t realize he’s put together the wrong ones. _Televisions_ though? Does he really not remember? Half the dumps they had lived in growing up didn’t have _electricity._

Steve immediately gives up on making shit work in favor of changing the subject. “How about we just eat.”

The next ten minutes are the most awkward ten minutes of Steve’s life. And that includes the time he had to take his shirt off to get into the Vita Ray chamber in front of Agent Carter— which was only about two minutes, but definitely felt like a whole ten.

It turns out Steve doesn’t really know how to make conversation with Bucky. At all. They are usually so preoccupied with everything at the Avengers facility upstate that they rarely have this much time alone together, let alone with zero distractions. What did they talk about back home when Steve wasn’t suffering through some new sickness or Bucky too exhausted from work to chat? Friends, neighbors, the latest comic books? Being hungry, being poor, the war, the war, the war.

Always the war.

Since when did this get so hard? Their companionable silence had felt so peaceful in Wakanda. Natural, unburdened with any expectations. Right before they came back to the US, T’challa had said that the constant reprogramming left a web of damage on Bucky’s brain. The codewords were gone but this scar could never be undone. Steve thinks about that a lot.

Anyway. The food is good. Greasy and satisfying. That counts for something.

Steve knocks his beer over, and even though Bucky’s suggestion that the stain could just blend in with the rest of the carpet sounds like sarcasm, Steve takes one look down and realizes he’d been entirely literal.

Gross, Clint.

When Steve passes Lucky on his way into the kitchen, the dog sits up attentively, with a tiny, impatient whine. “What’s up buddy?”

“Did you feed him?”

“Hawkeye said to feed him after nine,” Steve says, with a glance down at his watch. It’s only six-thirty.

“Which Hawkeye?”

“Clint.”

“Huh.” Bucky doesn’t sound very impressed with that so Steve sighs.

“Kate mentioned feeding him at dinner time. I wonder if Clint maybe just eats late.”

“Could be,” Bucky says, being no help at all.

“Alright,” Steve says, and Lucky grins wide when he realizes he has the human’s full attention. “You ready for some dinner, boy?”

Lucky stands up looks into his food bowl, then back to Steve. Of course he is.

Bucky drifts over to watch as Steve gets out the dog’s food, measures a cup of kibble against a half cup of wet food, and soon they are chuckling over the lab’s healthy appetite together. “I felt that hungry getting out of cryo,” Bucky says with a quiet laugh. “Pretty much every time, even though all they ever fed me was some paste through a tube.”

Steve doesn’t laugh and for a second Bucky looks embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to say that. Steve thinks it might have been the first time Bucky’s ever mentioned his time with Hydra. He wishes he could ask him more, ask him if Hydra ever bothered feeding their pet soldier, but doesn’t dare. Sam’s words ring in his ears, that if Bucky ever wants to come to Steve to talk, he’ll manage it in his own time.

Instead, Bucky picks up a rope toy that Lucky immediately latches onto with his strong jaws, and he bursts out laughing when the dog actually manages to twist the toy out of Bucky’s grip. “Okay, pal,” Bucky says. “Let’s see if you can go against my left hand.”

Steve’s anxiety seems to melt as he watches Bucky play with the dog, metal hand winding up as it tenses against the dog’s tossing head. “You’re not getting this back,” Bucky cries out, laughing again. “This is mine now!”

It’s one of those moments Steve files away; evidence that he really got his Bucky back after all, for when he needs to be reminded the most. He has a number of such memories, little snippets of his boyfriend he keeps close to his heart.

Ironically, one of those moments is that last, wide-eyed look of horror that Bucky had on his face when he had been crouched over Steve on the helicarrier as it plummeted into the Potomac River.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Bucky to tire out the dog, and soon Lucky is rolled over in his bed and happily snoring.

Bucky on the other hand, is still crackling with energy and Steve soon discovers that he’s inescapably frisky. They wind up making out on the couch for a good couple of hours before Bucky finally tugs him towards the bedroom, and without a word pulls Steve out of his clothes.

Sex with Bucky is easier than talking with Bucky. It actually feels like he’s entirely present when he’s between Steve’s knees, lips stretched around his cock and humming. Steve’s confusion and doubts scatter when Bucky pulls off his dick with a wet pop, then blows hotly onto Steve’s balls when he catches his breath between licks. “Jesus, Buck,” Steve huffs. “Jesus.”

“Mmm,” Bucky says, taking both of Steve’s balls into his mouth and giving them a gentle suck. A line of pleasure pulls Steve’s back into an arch and his arms go out wide to hit the pillows next to him, bracing himself. “Love you like this,” Bucky whispers, his wet lips forming the words right against the sensitive skin. “Love you all sloppy and wet.”

Bucky’s fingers — the flesh and bone ones — play in the saliva building up there and he swallows down Steve’s cock again. The gentle nudge against his hole makes Steve gulp and gasp for air, and he reaches down to put his fingers in Bucky’s hair. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t do anything rough, just holds his hand against the back of Bucky’s head as it bobs up and down, feeling the shape of it under his fingers, enjoying the illusion of control it gives him over his boyfriend’s rhythm. “Yes, more,” Steve pants, when Bucky pushes his spit-soaked finger inside. “Give me more.”

“Bossy.” Bucky tsks, but does as he’s told and adds another finger. “You’ll get what I give you,” he says. “I know how much you can take up your ass better’n you do.” It’s perfect, everything about the way Bucky touches him is perfect. Soft and patient and caring, always holding his metal hand back, always ready to follow up his filthy language with a sweet kiss. Steve never worries about Bucky’s past or Bucky’s recovery or Bucky’s nightmares when Bucky’s trailing a line of kisses up to his bellybutton, lapping up the mess that Steve’s leaking cock has made of his happy trail along the way.

Bucky bites his own lip when he finally eases himself inside Steve’s body, his face going red as he steadies himself. “Fuck, Steve. You’re so. So good.” Bucky inches forward while Steve gasps, relaxes, and gasps again, trying to take him all in. “So fucking good to me,” he says with a high whine when he finally bottoms out.

Bucky’s hips roll gently at first, thrusting at a slow pace as Steve adjusts to being so filled up, and Steve can’t say much of anything at that point beyond, “Fuck,” and “Bucky” and “More.” Then he picks up speed and Steve clenches his teeth, trying not to scream. He comes so hard that his hips lift them both off the mattress, and Bucky isn’t far behind, gasping and struggling to hold himself up as his cock pulses a steady stream of come into Steve.

They brace like that for a long time, catching their breath, slowly disengaging their bodies. Bucky finally softens enough to easily pull out, and gives a happy little groan when he sits back. “That was amazing,” he says. His face is still red, shiny with sweat, but his eyes are sparkling and his flushed red lips are grinning wide. He’s practically luminescent with the glow of a fresh orgasm, relaxed in a way that Steve rarely sees. Even the metal arm somehow looks softer.

“God, I love you,” Bucky breathes out, gazing down on the mess he made.

“Do you love me enough to let me stay here while you do clean up?” Steve asks, matching Bucky’s happy grin.

“That’s not being in love, that’s just being a sucker,” Bucky snorts. He pinches the meat of Steve’s hip with the metal fingers (because he’s an asshole,) and clambers out of bed (because he’s apparently also a sucker). Steve files that moment away, too.

Clint doesn’t have an en suite bathroom, so Bucky swings open the bedroom door and leaps back with a shout when he finds Lucky sitting there. The dog gets to his feet and walks into the bedroom like Bucky has made way just for him. “Hey pal,” Bucky huffs, backtracking and trying to herd the dog back into the hallway. “Give fellas some privacy, okay?” He’s trying to sound tough but he’s naked and looks ridiculous, so Steve laughs, and when he does it’s hard enough to shake the bed.

“Aww, but he waited so patiently,” Steve argues in Lucky’s defense, and flops over to his stomach so that he can reach off the side of the bed to pet him.

“You’re washing the sheets,” Bucky deadpans, and Steve realizes that he’s just spread the sticky mess on his belly all over the bedding.

“Aw, sheets, no.” Steve mumbles, and then Lucky starts probing the edge of the bed and dancing with his front two feet. “Whoa, buddy that’s far enough. You’re not getting into the manky sex bed. Bucky, a little help?”

“Sorry, too busy being in love,” Bucky snorts and leaves Steve to defend the bed’s perimeter from a needy dog alone. Another filed moment. Three in one evening, a world record.

* * *

Bucky winds up shoving Steve into the shower so that he can wash the blankets. Steve only half complains because shower sex is great, and then they are wearing clean pajamas in clean sheets, with the heavy weight of a victorious golden lab draped over their feet.

This goes on for several more days.

It’s not exactly what Steve had hoped, but somehow their quiet navigation of mundane, civilian life is thrown only slightly off kilter by the presence of Lucky, who instinctively seems to know that without a working television the super soldiers need a wingman. They go for walks; long ones all the way to the park to throw a ball around. They play tug-of-war, laugh over the dog’s amazing table manners, and whenever conversation stalls or the silence stretches out too long, there is Lucky with enough energy to do it all again.

It turns out the dog is distracting enough for Bucky to let his guard down, like the first time they watched Lucky gobble up his dinner. More human expressions slip out, more half-confessions, and even some contemplative frowns; little moments filed away for Steve to examine later. Steve tries his hardest not to pry into those hairline fractures in Bucky’s pleasant facade, but it’s a struggle.

Bucky’s defenses are never down for long, despite the happy dog constantly challenging them, and neutral, pleasant Bucky always returns in the end. It’s like someone hits a reset button, and Steve is left looking at his little filed moments wondering what happened, if they could have even come from the same person.

Once the tension of the day builds up to unbearable levels, Bucky is the one who takes the initiative and distracts Steve with the best sex of his life. Steve’s only human, so as far as he’s concerned that’s a workable solution. However, as the days drag on it becomes clear that it's also the _problem._

Usually, when people talk about ‘Captain America’ they marvel at the physical transformation. Steve’s small, defective body, miraculously turned into this Grade-A American Beefcake. Everything the perfect soldier is supposed to be, by the standards of his own time. People rarely ever talked about Steve’s strategic mind, which he actually had all along.

Sure his vision got better, so that he could see camouflaged spotters hiding out in snow laden trees. Sure his memory got sharper, so that he could recreate every detail on a map he only glanced at. Really, it had been his ability to see patterns that helped him work out effective strategies and combat operations. His ability to read people, his own men and the movement of the enemy, had allowed him to plan for flawless execution, almost every time. Seeing patterns is also what originally drew him to art, he figures.

Unfortunately, it means that even now, trapped in the future and dogsitting for a friend in a dumpy little apartment in Bed Stuy, Steve can’t exactly turn it off. Every time he thinks a moment too long about Bucky’s easy smiles, every time Bucky slips up and mentions something that happened before they found him in Romania, Bucky suddenly flips like a light switch and drags Steve into bed (or the shower, or the couch, or over the kitchen counter, or that one time against the front door.)

Steve starts to feel like Bucky uses sex with such surgical precision because he knows it shuts him up, usually for the entire rest of the day, until they wake up in the morning and start over.

Despite seeing this pattern, it still works. When it comes to Bucky, Steve will take what he can get, always happy to blow off some steam and leave the tension for another day. Steve even almost forgets about Bucky’s brief encounter with the tracksuit mafioso.

Almost, until he catches them together at the mailboxes, whispering in Russian.

* * *

This time he can’t let it go.

Bucky hadn’t been in bed when Steve woke up, his boots and backpack gone. Steve thinks immediately that this is it; Bucky’s left again, early enough to avoid the Hawkeyes when they come home the next night. It takes a few, groggy seconds for Steve to realize Lucky is gone too.

Okay, he thinks, just out for an early morning walk. Maybe Lucky had an emergency and Bucky didn’t want to wake Steve up. He shivers and pulls the blankets tighter over his bare shoulders. Holy hell is this bed cold without his boyfriend’s heat beside him. Steve sneaks one hand from the dissipating warmth under the covers in order to pull his phone off the nightstand.

_Where are u?_

_Out,_ is all Bucky replies. _Got the dog._

“Jerk,” Steve quietly curses.

 _Okay,_ Steve texts. _Love you._

Steve takes as long as possible to get out of bed, to take a shower, to brush his teeth, to get dressed. He doesn’t eat breakfast because he knows Bucky didn’t have any before he took off, and he really would like it if they could at least eat together.

That thought makes Steve brighten with an idea. _Where are you guys now? I could meet you. Grab breakfast at a cafe._

Bucky texts back immediately, _Don’t bother._

Steve stares at Bucky’s texted response and tries to think of Sam’s patience, his advice to give Bucky distance and time and eventually he’ll make space in his life for Steve’s worries. Now, Steve is sure that moment will never happen. Bucky is perfectly happy being perfectly happy.

And why not? That’s the question that always steadies Steve, leaving his anger on the back burner, simmering aside with no real chance of boiling over, cooled by guilt. Why shouldn’t Bucky live out the rest of his life, luke warm and tempered by self control...?

...Because that’s not who Bucky is or ever was.

Bucky is not quite like a robot; a robot wouldn’t forget that they never saw a television in the forties. It’s more like Bucky is hiding from him, ever so slightly manipulating him with just enough pleasantries to get by, just enough sex for him to stop asking questions.

The real question though, is which Bucky is actually hiding there, just beneath that mild surface. A man who is barely keeping things together? Or whatever is leftover from Hydra’s constant reprogramming?

Steve leans heavily into the breakfast bar with that thought, staring hard into the stained formica countertop. He’s an utter bastard for thinking such a thing, but he’d be an idiot not to at least consider it.

Something hasn’t set right with him ever since T’Challa declared that Bucky had been “cured.” The activation codewords could no longer work on the Winter Soldier, could no longer activate nor control him. Steve listened numbly as the King of Wakanda walked him through the unbelievable amount of injury done to his best friend, visible in a high tech Wakandan scan of Bucky’s brain, and carefully explained what Hydra’s crude technology had done to him over and over again. At a certain point even T’Challa had gone quiet, and sadly admitted that after such agonizing and brutalizing procedures, it’s a miracle that Bucky’s still alive.

Now, Steve thinks, what if Bucky never actually came back? What if the Winter Soldier had just picked a side after the Triskelion fell. Steve had been right there there, ready and waiting with open arms to welcome him back, without question.

Bucky plays this charade of being a pleasant, well adjusted human being so well. Steve doesn’t doubt that Natasha has the same skills, if she had any reason to use them.

Steve hates himself for thinking this way, but again, he can’t help but see the pattern. All the times Bucky has vanished for days, only to show up with no explanation, unshaven and wearing new clothes. Bucky’s complete lack of any emotional response, PTSD or guilt. Bucky’s easy way of assuming a role on the Avengers, even as they operated in secret while Tony Stark maneuvered the politics required for them to all come home. The only time there’s even a slightest crack in the facade is when he’s neck deep in dog fur, too focused on enjoying Lucky’s company to remember Steve’s there at all.

Then there is that Russian.

Steve pushes off the counter, grabs the front door key and marches out into the hall, where he promptly almost collides with one of Clint’s neighbors.

“You must be Steve Rogers!” A woman exclaims, pulling up short. Her arms are full of baby, while a toddler trails on her heels.

“Oh, hi,” Steve blurts out, feeling his conviction sputtering out like wind leaving a wet balloon. “Yeah, I’m watching Clint’s apartment while he’s away. Sorry for coming and going such odd hours. Are you Simone?” Steve feels his face heat when he suddenly remembers Clint’s special request. “Uh, Clint said something about introducing myself to you, if I had the chance. I hope I haven’t been rude.”

Simone laughs as she frees a set of keys from her baby’s playful clutches. “Oh yes, he told us. We just didn’t believe him,” Simone shrugs. “Captain America looking after this old place.”

“Oh.” Steve stops in his tracks where he had been trying to back out of the conversation. “You’ve lived here for a while?”

“Oh sure,” she says, unlocking her door, right next to Clint’s.The baby in her arms reaches out for the keys, even as they are stuck fast in the door’s lock, and her toddler rushes inside past her knees. Simone huffs out a tired sigh. “Charlie, if I hear that television go on—”

“I know mom!” Charlie calls out from inside. Simone yanks the keys free of the door and deposits them back into the baby’s waiting hands, promptly alleviating the start of his fussing.

Steve doesn’t want to keep bothering her but he figures this is his only chance. “So what do you know about the Russians downstairs? They new here?”

Simone snorts. “Oh, Clint can tell you all about that. But yeah, they’re new. Sorry Steve, I gotta run. Duty calls.” She pats her baby on the back and Steve says his goodbyes.

Steve thinks about this as he trundles down the stairs, thinks of how new Russian tenants in the building they just happen to be staying in could fit into this pattern he can’t help but see.

That’s when he catches them together.

Bucky is in the main entryway by the mailboxes, Lucky sitting as his feet bored while the two humans ignore him, speaking in low tones to one another. The Russian is the same one that they ran into outside of the Chinese restaurant, tall and lanky. The type of build that his neighbor from back home would say looked like a zipper if he stood sideways and stuck out his tongue.

“What the hell is this?” Steve blurts out. He meant to be a lot more smooth than that, but it comes out as a harsh accusation, right off the bat. His left arm tenses, feeling the awkward absence of his shield for his first time since he arrived in Bed Stuy.

The Russian spins around and looks up in surprise. Lucky stands, his tongue rolling out as he catches sight of Steve.

Bucky just frowns. “And there he is,” he says, to the Russian, not to Steve.

“Ah,” the Russian says, and beams up at Steve because apparently he wants to get punched in the mouth. “Lucky man.”

“What?” Steve blurts out, and feels his anger lite his own face on absolute fucking fire. “Walk away, son. While you still can.”

The Russian laughs _— laughs! —_ but he puts up his hands and backs down the hall before he joins his buddies, lurking in the doorway to number 2. The others greet him with slaps on the back, welcoming their own hero home.

The only reaction Bucky has is to smile and let the dog lead him back up the stairs, to where Steve’s still awaiting an answer. Apparently, Bucky won’t come to him on his own. He has to be lead to him by a dog too clueless to be anything but happy. “Wait.”

Bucky stops, confusion flickering over his face before the smile returns.

“My Russian is a bit rusty. What were you two talking about?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, but there’s a crack in his facade now and his voice doesn’t match up with his dismissive shrug. “It was nothing.”

“Was it nothing when you first got here?” Steve hedges and Bucky goes pale. Jackpot. “How long have you been talking to these guys? Is this where you were? Before you came upstairs? Down here? With him?”

“Jesus,” Bucky whispers, and Lucky sits down and whines, picking up on the tension between them. “Jesus, Steve…”

“I knew there was something off. What is it?”

“Look,” Bucky bites his bottom lip, passes the handle of Lucky’s leash from left hand to right, metal to flesh. “I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d _look_ at me this way. I just didn’t think you’d be so— ”

“What way, Buck? A way you’re not used to? A way you don’t have a programmed response for?” Steve suddenly thinks of all his precious, collected Bucky moments scattering out of his reach, blown away with anger and resentment and frustration.

“A progra— Wait, what?”

Steve is on a tear, otherwise he might have realized Bucky’s sudden shift, from guilty to bewildered. “I should have known. T’challa tried to warn me, but he knew I’d never listen. So what’s the connection? They know someone back in Siberia?”

“Stop—” Bucky snaps, holding up his free hand. “Don’t say another word.”

“Why? Am I finally figuring it out? You said yourself, you didn’t want me to look at you like this. Like someone who knows—”

“Like someone acting _jealous,_ you fucking idiot!”

Steve sputters a few indignant words. Lucky raises up one ear, like even he’s giving Steve a judgemental look. “Jealous?”

“Yes. I thought you’d be jealous.” Bucky stomps towards Steve with his head lowered, eyes shielded by his ballcap. “Viktor was hitting on me, Steve.”

* * *

Back in the apartment Steve clutches the side of his face, his elbows planted on the counter. Bucky is sitting on the couch, Lucky sprawled out beside him. The dog has his head in Bucky’s lap, happily taking up the rest of the cushions so that Steve couldn’t have sat there if he had wanted to. It’s nice, having such a soft barrier between them.

A silent moderator, and disinterested third party (even though Bucky is clearly still his favorite).

“So,” Bucky starts, gently stroking Lucky’s soft, floppy ear. “T’challa tried to warn you.” He isn’t quite asking. He clearly doesn’t even want to know.

“The brain damage,” Steve weakly admits. “The permanent scarring left by Hydra’s machine.” Bucky had been present as well, had insisted that Steve be there in the first place when T’Challa delivered his final prognosis. It had been the first Bucky moment Steve had filed away, before he even realized he was starting a collection.

Bucky nods. “It healed faster than they were prepared for,” he quietly recalls. “I remember doctors being furious about it. Russian doctors. Zola was the one who eventually figured out that it was the serum that suppressed it. It took years.”

The countertop goes blurry all of a sudden, so Steve straightens, looks up at the ceiling instead. “So. Viktor, huh?”

Bucky stays quiet for a few seconds, and Steve is terrified that it’s because he wasn’t going to let Steve deflect into a safer subject. Finally he sighs. “His cousins owned this place. Um, when Russians say ‘cousin’ that could mean just about anything, so. You know.”

“Sure,” Steve says. He doesn’t really know, but that hardly matters.

“So apparently those were some bad dudes, and Clint got rid of them when he took this place over. Viktor and his crew aren’t really bad guys. It’s why Clint lets ‘em stay here. It’s… not really common for a Russian mafioso to be gay and out but here we are. The only guy in New York brave enough to hit on—” He pauses long enough to give Steve a narrow look. “...the Winter Soldier.”

Steve winces. Is it even possible for him to apologize at this point? Where does he even start? “Bucky, I’m—”

“Did you really think I was still brainwashed?” Bucky looks down at the dog when he asks this, his left hand stretched out into the length of yellow fur. “...Really?”

“I didn’t know. The pictures of your brain. I didn’t know what to think.” Steve finds a crack in the formica countertop with his thumbnail and sighs miserably. “I thought I lost you.”

“So you thought I was just, what? Going under deep cover? A sleeper agent in Captain America’s pants?”

“I can’t even begin to apologize,” Steve breathes out. “I can’t even begin to understand what you must think of me right now.”

“I think you’re having a hard time adjusting,” Bucky reasonably states, surprising him. “I think this life of ours isn’t something you’re ready for.”

Steve blinks, trying to figure out what Bucky is trying to say. “I don’t follow.” Steve frowns some more. “I’m not the one with adjustment issues.”

Bucky laughs. It’s totally bizarre, given the circumstances. “Steve, I blew you last night until you cried for salvation from sweet merciful Jesus and you just accused me of being _Hydra._ Did you think that was my tactic for stealing your DNA for testing or what?”

“God! No! And that’s disgusting,” Steve says, his face twisting up sourly. “But I’m not having trouble adjusting to the future. I’m… I’m _fine.”_

“Sure, pal,” Bucky says blithely. “You’re so fine that you still call now ‘the future’ and you’re not at all paranoid about your boyfriend being a brainwashed Soviet assassin. You’re the model of mental health.”

Steve’s mouth falls open in shock. _Now_ Bucky decides to be sarcastic? Steve suddenly feels cooler towards Bucky since the man shot Nick Fury, like being judged by the ex-assassin is more insulting than being shot at. “I guess the job comes with a certain level of stress.”

“That’s another thing,” Bucky says, his voice taking on a sharper tone and Steve can tell he’s been wanting to say this for a while. “You somehow managed to find a way to keep punching bullies in the face, and built a whole team of folks that help you do it. Like there’s anyone left out there you still gotta prove something to.”

“What the hell, Buck! Do you think I do this for the attention? Risk my life — risk _both_ our lives — for a chance to show off? Is that what you think the Avengers is all about?”

“I think when I asked you if you’d keep the outfit,” Bucky shoots back before Steve could add another indignant question to his growing list. “I never thought it’d be for _seventy five years.”_

“I never wanted all that! You know I didn’t! I didn’t sign up for any of that flashy— ”

“I never signed up for this either!” Bucky raises the metal arm. “But unlike the uniform, I can’t take it off!”

Apparently, Lucky decided he had enough. The dog barks, loudly enough to silence the two shouting super soldiers, and trundles off the couch. He turns in his dog bed once, then flops down with both paws over his ears.

Steve has never felt more rejected in his life. Though at least the dog didn’t accuse him of being Hydra. Steve couldn’t possibly think of a more insulting idea, that he could ever be Hydra after everything he’s sacrificed to fight them. Steve looks at Bucky’s arm, and thinks about what he’s said, about Steve not adjusting well.

Steve had thought he had adjusted well. After the aliens and Ultron, and everything in between. He thought he had found his place in this new world, with these new people, who all have histories as complicated as his own. They all had made sacrifices, some personal, some for the greater good. Before DC, before Bucky was suddenly alive again, Steve had oftentimes considered his best friend’s death to be one of the sacrifices he had made. Bucky never would have been there if Steve hadn’t asked for him to join the Howling Commandos.

Steve looks at Bucky’s arm, and thinks about what Back had sacrificed, all on his own, while Steve had been asleep in the ice. Thinks about how maybe… Maybe joining the Avengers was Steve’s own way of being _amenable,_ to this bizarre new world.

Steve sighs, exhausted by all this self-doubt, lurking just below the surface of what he already knew about himself. “If I never take off the uniform,” he slowly explains. “Then I’ll never be forced to deal with the fact that we can never go home, not really. If I never take it off, then I won’t have time to think that maybe it was a mistake. Signing up.” The words came tumbling out before Steve can stop them. Had he ever considered it a mistake? The Army? The SSR? Erskine’s experiment? The Howling Commandos?

Yes. Yes, he had. Right after he had traded Bucky’s life for Zola’s capture, he was sure that Captain America was the worst thing that happened to either of them.

Steve shivers and realizes that he had been staring at the countertop so hard that he hadn’t heard Bucky stand, or walk over to him. Bucky wraps his hands over Steve’s clenched fists, and when Steve looks up he finds a face twisted in anguish.

“Steve you wanna know why I’ve been okay?” Bucky says. “I mean, sometimes I need space from all this so bad I wanna tear off my own skin.” He laughs, and the tears fall from his sparkling eyes. “But I’ve been okay because you’re here with me. As long as you’re here, I’m home. Sometimes it feels like you’re just waiting for me to fuck up, watching for any hint at all that I might be what I used to be,” Bucky swallows hard. He means when he used to be the Winter Soldier, not when he used to be Steve’s best friend, back home. “It feels like you hate it here, even with me in it. Sometimes I can’t stand being torn between you and the present, so I go off and see how the world’s changed. The cars and the people, the technology. I just sit at a cafe for hours and listen to other people’s conversations. I figure if I’m a wreck then I can’t be there for you.” Bucky puts his forehead against their stacked hands, and says to the countertop. “I can’t be _home_ for you, since that’s what all you seem to be looking for.”

Well, fuck. Steve puts his face in his hands. All his strategies go right out the window, because something clenches in his heart and his hands start to shake and for the first time he realizes Bucky is right. Steve is not adjusting well.

Steve is a fucking _wreck._

Bucky brings Steve’s hands to his lips, kissing them softly, like they’re made of glass. “It’s okay,” Bucky says, then huffs out a gently laugh across Steve’s knuckles. “Sam told me you’d come to me when you were ready. Didn’t think it’d be over amorous Russians, but…”

Steve bursts out laughing, at the same time as he lets the tears finally fall.

* * *

“Why did I decide to come up with you?” Kate puffs, gripping the handrail like her life depends on it as she drags herself up the stairs. The fresh cast on her arm is already starting to itch, and her tweaked hip could use more ice. “I don’t know why I didn’t just stop and throw you out of the car and move on with my life.”

“Because you’re just as curious as I am?” Clint suggests, stopping outside of his own front door with his keys out. “Viktor said he won in a fight with Captain America, Kate. What the hell kind of fight could Steve Rogers _possibly_ lose?” Kate gives him a flat look that speaks volumes about the time he wound up in a supermax floating prison out in the middle of the ocean, all because Steve Rogers lost a fight against Stark. “I mean possibly lose against Tracksuit Draculas Part Two!”

“Um,” Kate starts, still trying to catch her breath after she finally makes it to the landing. “Maybe you should knock first?” Her (broken) sunglasses have gone crooked on her (thankfully not broken) nose, and half of her hair is in her eyes. Clint actually just now sees that she has a little bald spot above her bangs, where the robots managed to grab ahold of her hair and yank her back when she had been trying to shoot the mailman (...long story).

“Right,” Clint says, trying not to stare.

“You’re staring.” Kate’s hands self consciously go to her face. “Why are you staring.”

“No reason, you’rerightIshouldknocksoI’mgoingtodothatnow.” Clint knocks on the door hard enough to hurt his knuckles, hoping it’s enough to grab her attention, before he pushes it open.

Lucky is the first to greet him, tail wagging so hard his whole body shakes from side to side as he gives whining little yelps between great big licks.

“Welcome back!” Steve says, a little too loudly as he straightens his t-shirt. He’s standing next to the couch now, but it looks like he had just been napping. Bucky sits up sleepily, his long hair hanging in his eyes as he adjusts for being awake (and oh my god Clint really should have for-real knocked, and not just as a ploy to distract Kate from her hideous bald spot.)

Steve Rogers is a healthy shade of pink when he looks Clint up and down and asks, “How was… um… Malibu?”

Clint follows Steve’s gaze and reminds himself that he has road rash all up and down one arm, a bandage over one of his already-useless ears, a brand new black eye, and two broken fingers that Lucky is already sniffing at with a concerned whine. All in all, it’s a very fair question.

“Tony’s house tried to murder us after the postman made me sign for some exotic— You know what,” Clint cuts himself off when Steve’s eyes go wide. “Nevermind. Did you, um. Did either of you have a run in with Viktor?”

Bucky snickers on the couch and tosses his legs over the edge, finally ready to get up. “Oh boy,” he says and drags his heavy boots over to start lacing them on. “Tell him how things went with Viktor, Steve.”

Clint gives Bucky another look. He’s never heard the other super soldier tease Steve like that before. Come to think of it, he’s never really heard the Winter Soldier say much of anything before. Now his lip is curled with a catty smile and his eyes sparkle with mischief as he gives the obviously struggling Captain America the business.

“Um,” Steve says. “I had to apologize to him. I kinda got the wrong impression about something. Sorry if it causes you any trouble with your tenant.”

Bucky snorts so rudely that Steve actually turns around. “Shut _up,_ Buck.”

Clint’s eyes go wide when Bucky makes a ridiculous face at the back of Steve’s head, as soon as he turns around. “Anyway. Yes. Sorry about that.” Steve gives Lucky a judgmental point. “This guy on the other hand was a perfect pain in the ass.” Steve grins when the dog tilts his face up to lap at his finger, then laughs. “Couldn’t have done it without you.” He drops to his knees and scrubs the side of Lucky’s cheeks, and Lucky gratefully laps at his face. Bucky has his boots tied and collected his backpack from the hall, where Steve’s own bag is waiting politely.

“We should get going,” Bucky suggests. “Let Clint decompress after his, er, _not_ vacation.”

Steve kisses the tip of Lucky’s nose, then laughs when Lucky nails him right in the mouth with his tongue. “Sure, Buck,” Steve sighs as he stands up. “Um. Thanks for letting us stay here, Clint. It meant a lot.”

Steve stalls after grabbing his bag, gives Lucky a wistful look, and Kate manages to elbow Clint in the side (which shouldn’t even be possible because her arm is broken, but Kate is the sort of person who will always find a way to remind him when he’s being a jackass.) “Right!” Clint almost shouts in surprise, when he puts two and two together. “You know Steve you can come by anytime you want. I’m sure Lucky’ll miss you.”

“Maybe you could bring him by the base up North?” Bucky shyly suggests and Steve turns to give him a shocked look. The two super soldiers have a conversation with their eyes before Bucky finally shrugs. “It gets kinda lonely up there, don’t you think? Maybe we could get a dog. A fellow pet Avenger that Lucky can hang out with when he visits.”

 _“Pet Avenger,”_ Kate repeats in a gasp. Clint can practically see all her hopes and dreams for what that entails written plainly across her bruised face as she beams at Bucky.

“Tony would hate that,” Clint says.

“I love it,” Steve admits, because that’s kind of how things still are between him and Tony Stark.

Lucky makes a tiny, polite bark after Steve waves goodbye at him and Clint slumps onto the couch, exhausted by being awake for so many hours.

“They seemed different,” Kate muses, fiddling with the temple of her sunglasses to try and fix the crushed hinge.

“Kinda bratty,” Clint says through his yawn. Lucky winds up catching it, and his huge yawn follows quickly right after. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Captain America look so…”

“Normal?” Kate suggests. “Relaxed.”

“He was embarrassed.”

“Sure, about Viktor, but relaxed around Bucky.”

“Huh,” Clint answers, and scratches Lucky around his scruff, right under the collar where he knows the dog loves it the most. Lucky rewards him with a couple of licks and leans heavily into the attention. Of course Clint would always be his favorite. “What did you guys get up to?”

The dog practically shrugs, before he collapses on Clint’s feet in order to give him access to his belly for better rubs.

“More than we’ll ever know,” Kate snorts. “A Secret Pet Avengers mission of his own.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was the first time I had a chance to participate in a Reverse Big Bang and it was an amazing experience! I was challenged to move a bit outside of my comfort zone, both by having a narrative outside of Steve and Bucky's (with the Hawkeyes) and writing something in the actual canon-verse (since I mostly write in AUs.) 
> 
> It was an amazing opportunity to get to work with @whatthefoucault on bringing this artwork to life in word-form! I really hope I get a chance to do this again someday!


End file.
